


Still Into You

by harrietelizabeth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietelizabeth/pseuds/harrietelizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BAvXX_dPJ8J/?taken-by=nicholasgrimshaw">this</a> photo. Sorry it got kinda sad....title from Paramore's song Still Into You.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Into You

Nick’s phone buzzes in his pocket as he as Pixie trawl through another store, trying on the most ridiculous outfits they can throw at each other and catching dirty looks from the sales assistants with their raucous laughter. Nick checks his message absent-mindedly, expecting an email from Fifi about their show tomorrow or a text from his mum. But its not his mum. It’s Harry.

“Drinks tonight for my birthday. You in?” 

Nick stares at the message for a minute in silence, suddenly confronted by memories of tequila shots and hangovers, dim hotel rooms and his own flat, Harry’s tattoos inky black against the sheets. He thinks about Harry’s terrible cooking and awful jokes. He thinks about his hands. 

“Your birthday isn’t for two weeks, dickhead” he responds, desperately trying not to read too much into Harry’s text. They haven’t seen each other, properly, for such a long time, except for the X Factor where there were people and cameras everywhere. Nick’s been keeping his distance, mostly out of self-preservation and a kind of dread of telling Harry everything he feels about him when he gets drunk. Which is why he gets such a jolt, now, hearing from him like nothing happened between them, like they’re friends who catch up for drinks all the time. 

Harry responds quickly. “I get two birthdays this year, since I’m 22. keep up grandad.” Nick snorts, then looks around to see if anyone heard. But Pixie’s preoccupied trying on shoes and trying to keep Busta in check at the same time, and there’s no one else in the store. Nick turns back to his phone, quickly typing out a reply.

“now now popstar, no need to get precious. why the late notice?” 

Nick could just say he’ll be there. He’s kind of dying to say it, knowing full well that he’d cancel a meeting with the Queen to see Harry. But he’s trying to preserve some semblance of dignity. His own knowledge of his weakness when it comes to Harry is enough, without Harry knowing it as well. 

“why, you busy?” Harry texts back. Nick wants to roll his eyes, because of course Harry already knows how gone Nick is for him, even after all his efforts to keep his feelings carefully tucked away in the back of his mind. 

“i might be.” 

“You’re not,” Harry responds, almost immediately, and this time Nick really does roll his eyes. Mostly at himself, because Harry’s right. The only thing he had planned for later was a night on the couch with Pig, catching up on Luther and maybe trying a new recipe for cashew stirfry. 

“fine. where n when?” 

“milk and honey at 10.”

“see you then popstar” Nick sends, with the microphone and star emoji, then shoves his phone back in his pocket at Pixie comes over, bags slung over her arm. 

“Did Harry invite you to his drinks?” she says, to the point as always. Nick had sort of forgotten she’s friends with Harry too, one of the first people who’d adopted Harry when he and his bandmates had been thrown into the limelight after X Factor, with no idea how to navigate paparazzi or the London party scene or the music industry.

“Yeah,” Nick says, keeping his voice level. 

“Are you going?” Pixie asks, linking her arm with his as they walk out of the store. Nick gives her a look as if it’s a dumb question, even though they both know it’s not.

“Course. Why wouldn’t I?” She gives him a look like that’s a dumb question, which it probably is. But she doesn’t address it.

“No, course. It’ll be fun,” she says, then, “I’m starving.” Nick loves her, kind of a lot, for changing the subject. 

“Me too,” Nick agrees, but he’s not really thinking about food. He’s thinking about Harry and his annoying ability to insert himself back into Nick’s life whenever he thinks the imprint Harry made on his life, on his skin, has faded. 

//

Nick arrives late because Pig had been desperate for a walk when he’d got home from shopping with Pixie, and then he’d had to shower afterwards because he sort of ran around the park to get Pig’s exercise done faster. Also, he’d lain on the couch for half an hour after his shower contemplating whether he should actually show up, or whether it would be better for everyone (but mostly himself) if he feigned sick, or pulled the “I start work at 5:30am” card or begged off because he’s not sure he’s emotionally stable enough to encounter Harry in any situation involving alcohol. 

Eventually, though, he’d reminded himself that Harry’s his friend, even after everything else they’ve been through, despite everything else they’ve been to each other (whatever that might be; Nick still isn’t entirely sure). So he gets dressed and does his hair and gives Pig an extra treat as an apology for being out so much, and gets in his car to drive to Soho. He turns the radio up on the drive over, singing at the top of his lungs to drown out his thoughts. 

He’s not the last to arrive, however - it’s just Gemma, Pixie and a couple of Harry’s friends from home, who Nick recognises but doesn’t know very well, sitting at a table big enough for at least ten people. He tries to look at Pixie as he walks up to them, but his eyes flicker to Harry for just an instant. It’s long enough to see Harry’s entire face light up, though, and it knocks the breath right out of Nick’s lungs. Harry stands up and clambers awkwardly around the table to pull Nick into a hug, and Nick can’t help but breathe Harry in - his shampoo, his woody cologne, and the scent of boy underneath it all that he still holds, even though he’s 22. God, he’s so young.

“Happy birthday,” Nick says when Harry pulls away from the hug. Harry grins.

“It’s not my birthday for two weeks, dickhead.” Nick feels the grin tug at his lips and spread across his face, even as he rolls his eyes. 

“Right, well, guess you won’t be needing these,” Nick says, producing a box of cupcakes he’d picked up on the way. It was the only gift he could think of buying Harry that didn’t have some link to their past. Harry’s eyes visibly widen as he opens the box, and when he looks up at Nick there’s something else there, something Nick doesn’t want to put words to. 

“Thanks,” is all Harry says, taking the box from Nick and putting it on the table in the middle of everyone’s drinks. He looks at Nick again, in a way that makes Nick feel naked, more naked than he ever feels with his clothes off. Harry’s always had that effect on him, though, the ability to read him like an open book, even when Nick takes every precaution in closing himself off. It’s infuriating.

Nick sits down next to Pixie and Harry goes back round to the other side of the table, so they’re practically sitting opposite each other. Nick quickly engages himself in conversation with Pixie so he doesn’t have to watch the way that Harry expands into the space around him, his smile and his hands and his laugh filling up the entire room, making Nick feel like there’s no one else there at all. He’s careful with how much he drinks, telling Pixie he doesn’t want a hangover at work tomorrow, but also wary of how loose-lipped and loose-limbed he becomes when he’s drunk. Harry, however, seems to be under no such restrictions, ordering the most ridiculous sounding cocktails from the menu and asking the waiters what their favourite order is. Then one of them brings over candles, apparently at Gemma’s request, and they put them in the cupcakes so Harry can blow them out. Everyone sings out of key, and Nick watches Harry glow in the dim light of the bar and the flickering candles. He’s so pretty it hurts, like a hungry ache inside Nick’s chest that won’t go away, no matter how long he’s known Harry, no matter how many pictures of him he sees, no matter how many times he tells himself Harry’s just a friend. 

Gemma’s capturing the whole thing on her phone, and Lou’s here so she’s probably going to put this on snapchat, so Nick doesn’t feel too conspicuous when he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of Harry, grinning and putting his hands together in front of his chest before he leans in and blows the candles out. It’s so Harry, that gesture, that smile, his hair pushed back by a pair of glasses that Nick doesn’t even think are his, that he thinks if he remembers Harry in twenty years, it will be by that gesture of putting his hands together like he’s praying. Everyone cheers and then Gemma’s passing around cupcakes - Nick had no idea how many people were going to be there, so there’s way too many, but no one seems to mind, least of all Harry. 

When there’s nothing but crumbs left in the box, people start peeling off one by one, wishing Harry happy birthday. Nick’s about to make his exit, plead an early morning wake up call and old age, but then Harry’s clambering over people’s laps and almost spilling Lou’s drink to come around to Nick’s side of the table. Pixie’s seat is empty - she’s sitting next to Alexa, deep in conversation - so Harry falls into the chair next to Nick. He takes up even more space when he’s buzzed, so his knee is touching Nick’s thigh and his arm falls onto the back of Nick’s chair. He feels like Harry’s surrounding him on all sides, like he can’t breathe in his presence. 

“Did you get a good one?” Harry asks, bending his head towards Nick so that his hair brushes against Nick’s ear. 

“A good what?” Nick asks, feeling dizzy even though he’s only had two drinks. 

“Picture,” Harry says, gesturing towards Nick’s phone on the table. 

“Na, you look terrible,” Nick says, because it’s the only way he knows how to be with Harry - sarcastic, deprecating, terrified that if he’s honest, if he tells even a fraction of the truth, he’ll end up telling Harry he’s the most beautiful person Nick’s ever seen. 

Harry knocks him with his shoulder and reaches for Nick’s phone, quickly putting in the passcode he’d wrangled out of Nick years ago, that Nick’s never bothered to change. 

“Aww,” Harry says, “you should post it.” Nick looks at him in surprise - Harry’s usually so private, hates when pictures of himself make it onto social media unless he’s approved it first. Besides, there’s so many pictures out there of Harry that anyone has access to, Nick kind of likes it when he has ones that only he can see. But then, he thinks, he doesn’t need a picture of Harry in his phone to be able to see him the way most people never do: wrapped around the pillow with the sheets pushed down to his waist, snoring softly; in the kitchen of Nick’s flat wearing an apron and trying to salvage a burnt cake; wide-eyed and completely engrossed in some stupid story Nick is telling about his parents after he got back from a weekend at home and Harry had demanded to see him as soon as he got back. That’s the Harry he’ll remember he thinks, he doesn’t need a photo to confirm it. 

“Ok,” he says, gently taking the phone from Harry and opening Instagram. “What should my caption be?” he asks, once he’s put a filter on it. Harry would probably prefer black and white, but it’s not Harry’s bloody pretentious Instagram, is it. 

“Living with my bitches, hashtag live,” Harry says in an awful American accent, and Nick laughs, though he’s hyper-aware of the place where their arms are touching as Harry leans over to see Nick’s phone. Then he takes it out of Nick’s hands and types something Nick can’t see. 

“There,” Harry says, handing Nick his phone back. He’s written “haaaaaaaaaaappppppppppppyyyybuuuuuuurrrrfffffdaaaaaaaaayyytoooyouuuuuuuuuu”, because he’s an idiot. And Nick is kind of in love with him. 

Pushing that particular line of thought down, Nick snorts. 

“Very mature, Styles,” he says, trying not to notice that the photo already has 148 likes. Jesus. 

“Heeeyyyy,” Harry says, even as he leans his head on Nick’s shoulder. Nick is seconds away from caving, from leaning in and telling Harry everything. The way he still has Harry’s tee shirts in their own drawer in his room, unwashed, because they still smell like him. The way certain songs remind Nick of Harry and he walks around for days with the tune stuck in his head. The way he wishes things had been different, that Harry had just been a normal guy Nick met in a bar or at his local cafe, serving pastries with that dopey grin and flour on his hands. That everything wasn’t so fucking complicated. 

But he doesn’t tell Harry anything. He presses his cheek against the top of Harry’s head briefly, feels the itch of his unruly curls, and then pulls away. 

“Time for me to head off,” Nick sees, and Harry pouts at him. Nick is going to need him to stop that, immediately. 

“Party pooper,” Harry scowls. 

“I’m a busy, important man, Harold. The entire nation is counting on me to wake them up tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not. I’m not waking up until tomorrow afternoon,” Harry stays, his pout still stuck on, but wavering in favour of a smile.

“Too bad,” Nick says. “I was going to give you a birthday shoutout.”

“It’s not my birthday for two weeks,” Harry says quietly, without a pout. He looks....Nick thinks the word is wistful, but he’s trying not to put too much thought to that. He’s trying to put mental distance between himself and Harry, even while Harry’s knees are still touching Nick’s. 

“I know,” Nick says, standing up. Harry follows suit, swaying slightly, and Nick puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders to steady him. The look on Harry’s face when their eyes meet is too much to bear, so he pulls him into a hug instead. 

“Happy birthday, popstar,” he says quietly into Harry’s hair, hoping not everyone is looking at them, hoping there aren’t paparazzi with their cameras pointed through the windows. Like the photo of Harry grinning down at his candles, he wants to keep this to himself, just himself, not for the whole world to share. Just in this tiny moment, Harry is Nick’s, and he doesn’t have to share him with anyone else. Nick wants it to last for eons and eons.

Then Harry hiccups, and Nick pulls away and they’re both laughing, Harry bent over with his hands on his knees, hiccuping uncontrollably. And in the chaos of Gemma giving him a glass of water and Matt standing up to thump Harry on the back a few times, Nick slips away. It’s enough, he thinks, for now. The memory of Harry’s hands warm and large on his back, the thud of his chest against Nick’s, and the smell of his stupid strawberry shampoo. 

It’s enough, Nick thinks as he drives home. To still be able to have drinks with Harry, to watch him laugh and turn another year older (yet stay the same child he’s always been inside), to hold him in his arms for a few brief moments and breathe him in.

And then to let go.


End file.
